


dress

by Randomfandoms389



Series: D for... [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M, Sex Toys, maid outfit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26661709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomfandoms389/pseuds/Randomfandoms389
Summary: A maid costume. England really shouldn't have been surprised to find it on the bed earlier. He shouldn't have been but he had blinked and perhaps started to open his mouth to protest before seeing their matching grins and thinking better of it.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia), America/England/France (Hetalia), America/France (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia)
Series: D for... [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1910851
Comments: 8
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> my brain,,, is,, fried. I wanted to finish up the sweet devil/spadesverse fic but well. Pls have a frukus I finished a while ago instead?

“Annnd… done,” France says, releasing England’s chin with a flourish, recapping the lipstick with a crisp click. 

He’s perched on the bathroom counter, his back to the mirror and a smile on his lips as he looks over his handiwork, long legs parted just enough to bracket England’s hips, heels hooked absently in the bend of England’s knees.

England’s standing close enough, his hands resting idly on spread thighs, that he can see the fine lines at the corners of France’s smiling mouth, count the flecks of almost-violet in pale blue eyes. Unnecessarily close, really, for a simple application of lipstick that is a lurid shade of red far too dark for England’s pasty complexion, in his opinion, but France had been firm. And so had America, though England suspects that his insistence had been more to support his partner in this particular crime than any true preference as to the colour of England’s mouth. 

“This is ridiculous.” England keeps his gaze angled deliberately, steadfastly avoiding his own reflection in the mirror, even if that reduces him to staring at France of all people. He would sigh but then the damned frog would be able to tell and he would smirk and it would feel like admitting defeat and so England does not. He considers the state of France’s hair instead, the artfully mussed locks gathered back in a loose bun. A few tendrils have escaped; they fall forward, curling slightly, framing high cheekbones and blue eyes and an admittedly nice jaw, sharp and defined and dark with stubble.

He’s unshaven but fashionably so, because anything is fashionable when it’s France wearing it. This has been and still is a source of much aggravation for England but that is not the main problem here. No, the main problem here is that England’s fingers itch to run over that jaw, to feel the slight prickle of that stubble against his palm and his chin as they kiss, him and France and America too. Or better yet, to feel it against the tender skin of his inner thighs and higher, scraping over him and then having France smile and kiss away the slight sting-

“What are you thinking about, _mon chou_?” 

Damnit. England frowns at the presumptuous tone, the knowing smile, hastily banishing that particular train of thought. “That I look ridiculous,” he says flatly, coolly, lying easily. “And that I distinctly recall telling you to stop calling me a goddamned _cabbage_.”

It’s America who laughs at that, softly. The boy slips over from where he’d been sitting on the side of the bathtub, pressing in close, draping himself over England’s back. His hands settle on England’s hips, smoothing down the puffy fabric there, toying playfully with the tasteful ruffles sewn along the bodice.

A maid costume. England really shouldn't have been surprised to find it on the bed earlier, not with the sort of manga America liked to read and had possibly introduced to France in the past decade or so. He shouldn't have been but he _had_ blinked and perhaps started to open his mouth to protest before seeing their matching shit-eating grins and thinking better of it. No doubt the scheming pair of them had more outfits ready, each more revealing and embarrassing than the last, should he attempt to escape this one.

And the maid dress wasn't even that bad, really. It was fairly well-made, all rich black fabric and layers upon layers of petticoats to make it flare at his hips; none of that cheap synthetic material. It fit him well enough that England finds himself wondering which of his boys had raided his closet to get his measurements. France, probably. It was the kind of detail America probably would have missed unless reminded of it.

Still, if pressed, England might have even admitted that they had chosen well. He’d snuck a peek in the mirror earlier and while the lipstick really was far too red, the black suited him well enough and the cut of the bodice flattered his narrow waist and the buttoned collar was modest. 

Prim, even, and high enough that America was no doubt being driven spare, resisting the urge to drag it down so he could get at all the skin hidden beneath. He's nuzzling at England’s neck now, in fact, worrying at the starched collar with lips and teeth and tongue, heated breaths sending shivers down England’s spine. He tilts his head, giving the boy more access while simultaneously giving France a look that dared him to comment. He gets a faint smile in return, an innocently unassuming _who, me?_ look even as France lifts a hand to trace the line of silver buttons going down the middle of England’s chest.

The elastic of the stockings is tight around his thighs. They haven't even made him put on the heels yet but England already wasn't feeling too steady on his feet. He feels breathless and overly warm, trapped against America’s bulk with France’s thighs on either side of him. They were both touching him now, greedy hands running over every inch of his body, smoothing over every curve, exploring his new attire.

The maid costume had come with gloves too; plain white cotton, fastened neatly at his wrists. America’s playing with one of them, picking idly at the clasp. England leaves that hand on France’s thigh, thumb brushing the seam of his trousers, and reaches back with his other, burying his gloved fingers in America’s hair and then, as America’s teeth close around his earlobe, tugging sharply on golden hair in not-quite protest. 

There is another component to his outfit today, however, and as England shifts his weight and feels the pull and slide of cool silk in between his legs, over his already half-hard cock, he almost moans. 

It’s an unfamiliar sensation - intoxicating, almost; the soft silky smoothness of the panties, the barely-there scrape of lace tickling his skin. America is working his way up to them; his big hands are sneaking up England’s skirts, smoothing over his stockings, calloused fingers stroking at the small slice of bare skin just above it. 

Then, the very tips of those fingers are brushing the panties, stroking curiously over the very edge, and England bites his lip before remembering the lipstick and stopping before he messed it up or got some on his teeth. 

France must have caught the motion, having been watching with that infuriatingly lazy half-smile still. He cups England’s cheek with a hand, drawing his thumb over the corner of England’s mouth. “Don't worry about smudging, _mon chou_ ,” a whisper, warm breath brushing his chin. They're of equal height but England’s taller than France like this, with the man sitting on the counter. France has to look up at him and does, coyly, through absurdly thick lashes that England knows full well were only achieved through judicious application of mascara. “It’d look good on you still.”

Charmer. “Not a cabbage,” is all England murmurs back, half-closing his eyes as France chuckles and leans in. The kiss that follows is not a proper one; despite his words, France did seem somewhat invested in maintaining his hard work with the lipstick and directs his kisses accordingly, mouthing at England’s neck, the underside of his jaw. He does an admirable job of not colliding with America throughout this, seeing as the boy had not ceased his nibbling at England even as his hands crept higher. And higher. _Mmh, god…_

England is just wondering if they had dressed him up in this outfit just to take him out of it (not that he’s objecting, of course) when France pulls away.

“ _Merde_ ,” he murmurs, eyes heavily-lidded, his head tipping back, hot breaths feathering over England’s neck. “Alfred, _mon cheri_ , it seems that we have forgotten something.”

America does not pause in his ministrations. England bites back a low groan when the boy tongues at his ear, at the hinge of his jaw. “Mmhm?”

“Yes. Something very _important_ ,” France stresses, untangling one leg from around England’s and reaching around to kick lightly at America’s arse, which is a somewhat unorthodox but clearly effective way to get his attention. 

“Wha- Oh. Oh!” 

England opens his eyes, catches sight of America’s face in the mirror, the sudden comprehension. Not for long though; America’s already peeling himself away, scrambling off to rummage through one of the drawers. England hasn't the faintest idea what all that is about and merely watches his frenzied movements out the corner of his eye, letting himself lean into France, into the lazy hands still stroking up his sides but America finds whatever he’d been looking for fairly quickly, popping up to his feet with a triumphant sound and a… very distinctive object clutched in his fist. 

_That. That can't be right though._

“...Is that a plug,” England says, finally. It’s not a question. He considers the size of it, the girth, and feels his mouth go dry. America comes back to press against his back again, grinning a tad manically and depositing the toy - and a bottle of lube - into his limp hand. Ah. Well. _That would be necessary, yes._ Seeing as the plug was… It was generous, to say the least. Perhaps _too_ generous, even. 

“And you want to put… that up my arse,” England says, slowly, trying for incredulous and wincing inwardly at the slight crack in his voice, the sudden roughness evident even to his own ears.

France was looking far too amused again. Damned frog. He kisses the corner of England’s mouth, softly - sweetly, almost, the treacherous bastard. “Not quite, _mon amour_.” 

And then he reaches over but England is trapped in place, thoughts fuzzy with arousal and the mere idea of getting that bloody thing to even _fit_ \- so distracted that it doesn't even occur to him to escape or just smack those hands away before they dive under his skirt and _grab_ and then he’s so startled that he fucking _yelps_ as his panties are dragged down unceremoniously. It’s humiliating and even worse was that he’d actually jerked back, knocking into America, who just shoves him forward again, the little traitor. 

“What he said.” There is hot breath against his ear and _cool_ air against his nethers because France was an absolute bastard and England _hated_ him so fucking much. Him and America too, for aiding and abetting the perverted frog. He would have said so but all he manages is a strangled sound as America grabs at him, roughly, in between his legs and he shifts instinctively to accommodate that hand only to find the panties in the way, keeping him from spreading his thighs properly. 

“Ah- _Alfred_ …” 

America kisses his neck again, slow and soft and says, "We’re not putting anything in you, sweetheart.” His fingers press and curl, squeezing _just_ so, and England can't help his low moan, the way his hips roll.

But America isn't finished. Another kiss and then the boy is whispering into his ear, “We’re not, honey, ‘cause you're gonna do it to yourself.”

… What. 


	2. Chapter 2

The stupid lipstick has been well and truly smudged and it was all France’s fucking fault, even if it had been England who had initiated the first kiss, surging forward and crushing their mouths together with a moan just to distract himself from the intrusion of his own fingers, the achingly pleasurable stretch and burn.

France’s fault, all this was France’s fault but America was  _ not fucking helping _ either, with his nibbling and his big hands and his soft breaths puffing at England’s neck. And his terrible attempts at encouragement; it was just ghastly, really. He was all soft kisses and gentle cooing, standing there and rubbing at England’s tense shoulders and just about oozing positivity all over him. It was horrible. Just awful. England never wanted him to stop. He squirms, pushing himself into those hands with a whine and America shushes him soothingly. 

"C’mon, sweetheart…” Kiss, kiss, kiss. “You're doing so good, just a lil more…” 

Lies, all of it. England has three fingers in already and that was what America had said for the first and then the second and now he was saying that for the fourth.  _ When is he going to stop? _ comes the half-hysterical thought and England is struck by the horrifying,  _ arousing  _ suspicion that America would say the same for the fifth because he can't. He  _ can't _ . Not anymore, no, no, no. 

He struggles for breath, burying his face into France’s shoulder, his clammy cheek to the other nation’s neck and his eyes tightly closed just so he wouldn't have to see his own face in the mirror, the shameful neediness doubtlessly painted all over his features. He's so exposed, with the panties lowered, the puffy skirts flipped up and tucked against his back, his bare arse pointed to the world. 

It was awful and humiliating and his cock was fucking  _ throbbing _ , so much that he was probably dripping all over the floor. He doesn't remember taking off his gloves -  _ no, not gloves, just the one - _ but he must have, at some point, or someone had done it for him, because it’s his own bare fingers he can feel inside him, curling and scissoring and stretching almost automatically, so slick with lube that he can feel it leaking out of him and making a mess. 

France is carding through his hair, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear and cradling the back of his head with one hand even as the other fondles him, skillfully, shamelessly, cool fingers against his heated flesh, prying in between his arsecheeks, spreading him open. Open, open…  _ god, please, no more. _

“A-Alfred,” he manages finally, half-moaning the words. “My god, are you  _ -ngh…  _ going to have me shove an entire  _ fist  _ up there?”

Someone laughs, one or both or none of them. His head was spinning too much to be able to tell. The bathroom really was a horrible place to do this; it was so cramped and there was hardly any ventilation at all and it was so hot that every breath felt like it was searing his lungs. And the collar, that godforsaken  _ collar _ . He wanted so badly to undo it, just yank at the sweat-damp fabric until it came away and stopped pressing at his throat, digging into his skin every time he swallowed and fucking strangling him. 

He feels America press a kiss to his nape, nipping gently. “Relax, sweetheart… ” Oh, as if he  _ could _ . “You're almost done, not much more to go now.” 

England could have killed him. Right then and there; shoved the boy to the floor and wrapped his hands around that tanned neck and shoved his hips onto the hard cock he can feel against his backside through America’s jeans and rode him till he fucking screamed. “You and I have -ah,  _ wildly  _ differing views on what it means to be -  _ mnf…  _ almost done...”

More laughter at that, soft and warm. There are hands on his hips and his thighs and everything in between, stroking his skin, playing with the stockings and the panties that trap his legs together. His neck is kissed and then bitten - America’s handiwork, he thinks fuzzily, it must be - and then  _ oh, thank fuck, _ strong fingers are wrapping around his wrist and gently coaxing his fingers out of his arse, all three of them. 

England goes limp immediately, slumping forward and shuddering at the sudden emptiness, the loss, the relief. France has to keep him upright, wrapping him up tightly in his arms and allowing England’s near-desperate grip on the back of his shirt. They could really have done without the sympathetic crooning and murmured French endearments in his ear but England’s shaking so badly that he supposes he could forgive France for it. He doesn’t even know why he’s so affected by all this; this was nothing, it was just the warm-up, it was  _ foreplay _ and he’s taken far more than three fingers in his time. 

Perhaps it’s the just-barely-too-tight dress or the suffocating heat in America’s shitty bathroom or simply the fact that it had been a while. America had bottomed last night, smiled and kissed them hello and then laid back and let France and England have him. The sex had been lazy, languid; it had been late and they - he and France, at least - had been tired from the long flight and the hassle of airports and checkpoints and baggage. 

He’s been busy, these past few months, too busy for more than a brief, cursory wank in the shower now and then whenever the sexual frustration became too much. He’d been practically celibate, really, and now here he was trussed up in silk and lace, tucked between two warm bodies… with America applying more lube to his fingers. England hears the squelch of the bottle and then feels the drip of cool wetness on his skin and despairs.

“Oh my  _ god _ ,” he moans into France’s shoulder, squirming as America starts to push his fingers back towards his entrance. “ _ Enough _ , Alfred, enough. No more, I c-can’t… ” 

France clicks his tongue, lightly, teasingly. His lips brush England’s ear. "Are you sure,  _ mon cheri _ ? It’s a bit… larger than you're used to. We don't want you to get hurt now, no?”

Damn the frog. It was his fingers scooping lube off England’s unsteady hand, his fingers delving in between England’s cheeks, tracing slow circles around the twitching pucker before pressing in. And in. And-  _ oh god. _ England moans, feeling them twist and swirl and brush up against a particularly sensitive spot. He shifts his hips instinctively, rocking back against that hand, dimly registering America’s low groan as his arse presses into a distinctive bulge, denim scraping against his skin.

Then France’s fingers curl and jerk  _ up, _ and there is such brief, blinding pressure on his prostate that England has to bite down on a mouthful of shirt to keep from shouting. His nose is pressed into France’s collarbone; he’s breathing air that smells like sweat and sex and the stupid poncy frog’s cologne, something sweet and flowery that never failed to make his skin tingle (which was a fact that he was never  _ ever  _ sharing with either of them). America is a warm presence at his back, mouthing at his throat, grinding his jeans-clad prick against the back of England’s thigh, carefully positioned so he doesn't get in France’s way. 

England squirms, not quite sure himself if he's trying to escape those fingers or encourage them, and America hisses, seizing his chin with rough fingers, forcing his head up. Startled, England catches sight of himself in the mirror, a blur of flushed cheeks and tousled blond hair, for half a second before looking away. Or trying to. America was having none of it though, tightening his grip on England’s chin, forcing him to _ look, sweetheart, look at you, so red and pretty for us,  _ heedless of the half-whined protest that followed.

America kisses his ear, licking at the shell and then biting down sharply, warningly, when England closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see. The pain makes him gasp, makes his hips buck and America groans, pressing closer, digging sharp teeth into his skin. “Shit, sweetheart… We’ve got- mmm, we've got  _ plans  _ for you, y’ know? Sat down and thought it out- just how we were gonna touch you, fuck you, make you moan till that pretty voice of yours goes hoarse-”

France touches him  _ there  _ again as if for emphasis, kneading gently with the very tips of his fingers and they don't even have the decency to let him muffle his moan into France’s shoulder this time. 

“Your mouth is so red right now,” America says, almost musingly, before blowing lightly at his ear and laughing softly when England shivers. “I like it. S’ how it looks like after we make out on the couch for ages and then you let Francis or me go down on you, suck you off while you bite your lip and try to hold back all your cute little sounds.” A calloused fingertip ghosts over his lip. America is smiling, in the mirror. “See? All shiny and swollen.” 

It was an incredibly specific scenario and, unfortunately, one that England could picture all too well. He pushes away the thought, the memory of big hands on his thighs and searing wet heat all around him, blue eyes and blond hair tangled in his hands, two smug smiles aimed up at him as he… 

“God, shut  _ up _ ,” he manages, gasping as America pushes a knee in between his legs. “A-ahh…” 

America rubs a thumb over his bottom lip, smearing the colour. And England looks, finally, watching through hazy eyes as America pushes that thumb into his mouth, feeling the odd, slightly tacky sensation of the lipstick on his tongue. He  _ did  _ look red, with his mouth stained with that almost-unnatural shade and his cheeks so heavily flushed. He looked- well, just about half-dazed with arousal, actually, with a hot mouth on his neck and hands all over him and three fingers buried up his arse, stroking and scissoring.

And he gets to see his own eyes widening, the way his throat works and his mouth falls open, as France spreads him and forces in the fourth so abruptly that England’s breath leaves him in a choked cry, his back arching.  _ T-too much, oh -wait, wait…  _

He barely hears the whispered platitudes, the murmured reassurances. France hums at him as if attempting to soothe a wounded animal, wordless and affectionate as those fingers shift and  _ ahhhh-  _

He whimpers at that, at the stretch, he thinks, he must have. It’s a raw sound, of pain and pleasure both, and America puts warm arms around his middle in a clumsy sort of hug, saying - things. Just things, really. France is moving his fingers, rocking them, almost. Slowly, back and forth in tiny, tiny motions. Not thrusting, England’s too tight for that to be anything but excruciating; he’s slow and sweet and gentle, but it’s all England can do to keep from shaking apart just from that. He hears snatches, bits and pieces of words that don't quite land:  _ relax, babe, we've got ya - you're doing so good - we’re gonna put it in now, okay? _

He only notices when the fingers slide out of him, carefully, leaving him loose and empty and achy, feeling so fucking  _ needy  _ that he whines and wriggles in their combined grasp, rubbing his bottom against America’s erection and then pushing his hips towards France’s, towards the hard length he knows is just in front of him, hidden by layers of fabric that chafed his own aching cock.

“Jesus,  _ fuck _ .” He hears America mumble from behind and feels the faint vibration against his cheek as France groans in agreement, head tipping back so England can press closer, laying sloppy kisses all over his neck. 

They have to hold him still, heavy hands on his hips and France kissing him quiet, America’s teeth grazing his neck, as the plug is pressed to his entrance and his body tenses up instinctively at the slick coolness of the silicon, the nudge of a blunt tip that felt so, so much thicker than those fingers earlier. Now, if only America would stop fucking  _ teasing…  _

“Just _ put it in _ already,” he half-moans, pulling away from France and swaying back hopefully only to be restrained by America’s firm hand on the small of his back. The toy is withdrawn and England could have hit him. “D-damnit, boy, hurry up-!”

“Gosh, you're impatient today…” 

“ _ Alfred _ !” England snaps, impatient, and then cries out when America bites the side of his neck again, just above his collar, hard. France breathes a laugh, muffled against England’s hair.

“Oh, let him have it. He’s already been prepared and we've taken long enough as it is.”

America didn't seem convinced. “But…”

“Come now, you know he wants it. See how loose he is, how needy?” Fingers on him,  _ inside  _ him, pressing in deep and then withdrawing so only the tips are left, hooked just inside, holding him open. England moans at it, at the brief stimulation and the knowledge that he’s being spread open and presented for America’s benefit. 

He hears the boy swallow audibly and then-  _ oh, yes…  _

The toy is back, pressing and rubbing at his entrance. “Fine, fine, god, you're gonna be so sore tomorrow,” America says, pushing and pushing and all that pressure makes England choke on air, on his next breath, on nothing at all as his body shudders and clenches and then  gives . “Hell, you wanna be fucked so bad? Maybe I should just shove it in, then - that’s what you were fucking begging me for, right?”

He’s gentle though, despite the words, the harsh tone. The plug sinks in slowly, so slowly that it was almost cruel because it was just so  _ goddamned  _ big and America nudging it in so carefully just means that he’s trapped there, forced open and stretched out around the widest part for endless, agonising seconds that might as well have been hours.

England’s panting by the time it’s over; quick, hitching breaths that catch in his throat and sound far too much like sobs for whatever is left of his dignity but he can't make himself stop because it hurt so much and felt so good. France is reassuringly solid against him, cooing softly and petting his hair, pushing the sweaty strands off his forehead. America is curling in close again, almost contrite despite having no reason to be as he drops tiny kisses over England’s covered shoulders and nuzzles his neck. 

He feels calloused palms cupping his face, America cautiously smoothing the pads of his fingers over the spaces under England’s eyes almost as if… oh.  _ Soft-hearted fool never did like hurting either of them, even when they all but asked for it…  _

He manages a huff; more air than sound, really, but it might have been a laugh if you listened closely. “Silly boy. M’ fine. Not crying.” 

“Hm.” America smuggles up against his back anyway, joining the tangle of limbs propped up against the counter. His chin ends up on England’s shoulder, his arms going around him and France both, and this would all be very sweet if not for the erection England can feel America pressing against his still bare arse. Or his own for that matter, flagging a little at the brief interlude but by all means still very interested in proceedings. 

He gives them all a minute, letting his heartbeat slow and willing his legs to stop trembling before clearing his throat. “I do recall,” he says finally, once he has their attention. “There being some mention of a  _ plan  _ earlier, correct?”

“... There might have been,” France says, slowly, but he wasn't fooling anyone; England could see his mouth twitching out the corner of his eye. And America was even easier. He can feel the slight stiffening of the warm body draped over him and doesn't miss the way that the thick cock pressed against the back of his thigh stirs. 

“Care to enlighten me, then?”


End file.
